


The Devil's Breath

by dining_alone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, South America, Twentysomething Sherlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dining_alone/pseuds/dining_alone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are only two explanations for your behavior. You’re either in the throes of sexual obsession or you mean to kill me.”</p><p>Sherlock travels to Colombia to study a dangerous new street drug. Jim can't help but get involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Breath

“You can stop staring. I know you’re there.”

The young man doesn’t turn around when he speaks. He’s bent over the windowsill, black curls silhouetted against the glow from the streetlights outside. They’re close enough to the ocean that Jim can hear the tide coming in.

 “Close the door.”

Jim does as he’s told. The young man sniffs, wipes his nose, and gets to his feet. He’s wearing a clingy t-shirt and jeans. If there were more light, Jim knows he would see the track marks on those thin arms.

“Obvious that you’ve been following me. Obvious that you know _I know_ you’re following me. But you’re being deliberately discrete about it, which means you’re aware of who I am and what I can do. So what’s the game then? Are you testing me?”

The boy’s speech pattern is rapid and jerky, a clear result of chemical pileup between nerves. A neurotransmitter traffic jam.  The humidity of the foreign climate makes his hair stand on end, and sweat is beading at his temples and in the hollow of his throat, adding to the picture of instability.

Jim doesn’t say anything. After weeks of only hearing Sherlock’s voice in stolen snippets, he doesn’t want to interrupt what could be an impressive display.

“You want me to prove it,” says Sherlock. “All right. Well.” He wipes his nose again and begins to pace. “I first noticed you at the phone bank in St. James Park station, having a very obviously feigned conversation. You can always tell when a phone call is faked,” he adds. “No one ever pauses long enough to convince you that the other participant is actually speaking.”

“You overheard me ordering the plane ticket to Bogotá. Then I spotted you at Heathrow on the day of my flight, at another gate, ostensibly waiting for the 747 to Philadelphia. But of course, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Jim’s indulgent smile widens. “Go on,” he says.

“I spotted you on the plane to Cartagena, sitting towards the back, in an unconvincing blonde wig. I hope it didn’t take too long to remove all that bronzer.”

“No time at all, darling.”

“Furthermore, I had already recognized you the moment I saw you at the phone bank. You’re rather well-known in my social circle, Jim Moriarty.”

Jim thinks of Sherlock’s curt interactions with dealers at parties and in clubs, usually followed by his swift departure. He smirks. “I’m not sure you could call it a _social_ circle.”

Sherlock ignores the jab. “Which brings me back to my original question. What’s the game?”

“Game? There’s no game. I’m here on business. I just thought I’d drop by and visit one of my favourite customers.”

“Following me across the Atlantic Ocean hardly constitutes ‘dropping by.’”

“Doesn’t it?” Jim sits down on the cheap little hostel bed and kicks off his shoes, smiling beatifically up at Sherlock all the while.

Sherlock narrows his eyes for a moment before his features abruptly smooth over. “You’re here for sex,” he says without inflection.

“You really must get your mind out of the gutter,” Jim replies, pretending to be taken aback.

“I’m right though, aren’t I? There are only two explanations for your behavior. You’re either in the throes of sexual obsession or you mean to kill me.”

Jim wonders whether the two explanations are mutually exclusive.

“Luckily for you, I happen to be amenable,” says Sherlock. He shucks his white t-shirt, balls it up, and throws it into a nearby chair.

Jim takes a moment to admire his naked torso: pale and nearly hairless apart from the dark trail leading down from his navel, with just a hint of ribcage visible underneath the skin.

Sherlock is still babbling in that endearing, drugged monotone. “I’ve found that sex immediately after a hit is the most useful to me, as it heightens the sensations and helps release any excess energy. I see you already have a condom in your left trouser pocket, so we won’t need to waste time discussing our respective sexual histories.” He unbuttons and unzips his jeans, sliding them to his ankles. He isn’t wearing any sort of underwear. “Penetrative sex is acceptable. I prefer to be the receiving partner, but I’m open to topping with experienced bottoms.”

“You’re very forward, you know,” says Jim, his eyes tracking the movements of Sherlock’s hips.

“You would prefer me to be coy?”

“I don’t think you have a coy bone in your body, Sherlock. Certainly not that one.” Jim points between the young man’s legs.

 Sherlock rolls his eyes in response. “Wonderful. Are we going to trade innuendos all night, or would you like me to join you on the bed?”

It’s a tempting offer, but this isn’t Jim’s preferred time or place. He stands up and adopts a colder tone of voice. “You’re presuming a little too much.”

Sherlock looks momentarily dumbfounded, but recovers with speed. “I never presume. I observe. You followed me across the Atlantic Ocean and then turned up in the room I rented after midnight. Your face is flushed, your breathing has quickened, and I’d hazard a guess that your trousers are starting to feel quite a bit tighter than usual. You’re displaying all the classic hallmarks of physical attraction. What was I _supposed_ to think?”

“Perhaps not all of us are panting for it like you are, dear.”

“I’ve never panted for anything in my life.”

Jim smiles and withdraws a small plastic baggie full of white powder from his trouser pocket. He taps it gently against the palm of his hand. “Is that so?”

Sherlock’s expression goes from annoyed to carefully blank. He pulls up his trousers and puts his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

Jim wants Sherlock; no sense denying himself that. He’s wanted Sherlock ever since he spotted the other boy in a grimy Camden pub. Jim recognized him straight away—an adolescent version of the little boy who asked about Carl Powers’s shoes all those years ago. But there in the pub, Sherlock was seventeen years old, high as a kite, and possibly fresh off his first sexual experience with another man. The man in question had certainly bragged about it later that night while he and Jim divided up their profits in the bar’s stuffy back room.

_“Gave a handy like it was his first time. Like he didn’t even know how to touch himself. He’s lucky he’s got such a pretty mouth. ‘Else I’d’ve made him pay him like the rest.”_

Jim is willing to bet that after several years of bartering sex for drugs, Sherlock’s talents in that particular arena have improved a great deal. But he can’t let himself think of Sherlock’s hands right now, can’t let himself envision those long, violinist fingers undoing the buttons on his trousers and slipping inside....

It’s too close to the fantasy. Jim is a hedonist, to be sure, but he also understands that _delayed_ gratification is the best kind. After weeks of following Sherlock around London and across the Atlantic Ocean, subsisting on quick glances and overheard fragments, he doesn’t want to risk gorging himself too fast. Better to draw this out and leave Sherlock guessing.

“I want to know why you’re here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorts at that, but Jim continues.

“I’ll admit, at first I thought you came here to escape _big brother’s_ watchful eye. And really, no one would blame you for that. But why travel all the way to Colombia? To Cartagena? You could get away from him just as easily in most of continental Europe. Then I remembered _this_.”

Jim throws the baggie of cocaine in the air and catches it with a flourish. Sherlock’s eyes track it as it rises and falls.

“Perhaps you wanted to be closer to the source. Maybe you thought you could get it fresher and purer here, hmm? But no, you’re smarter than that. That would require connections you don’t have, and let’s be honest with ourselves now; you’ve never been very good at making friends.”

Sherlock straightens up with a retort, but Jim cuts him off. “Fortunately, _I_ have those connections.”

He tosses the baggie to Sherlock, and Sherlock, strung-out as he is, barely catches it with the tips of his fingers.

“I hope you aren’t naïve enough to think that you can keep a secret from me. I _will_ find out why you’re here. In the meantime… enjoy the present."

With that, Jim turns and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

 

***

 

For a long while after Moriarty leaves, Sherlock lies on the narrow bed, the baggie full of cocaine held loosely in his right hand. He toys with the idea of sampling some—testing whether it was as pure as Moriarty claimed. But he needs to _think_ now, and taking another hit so soon after the last one will only inhibit the process.

Here is a fact: Moriarty has been following him since the day he made formal plans to leave London, and likely even earlier than that. _Why?_

Sherlock lines up everything he knows (or has deduced) about Jim Moriarty:

  1. He is young—perhaps only a few years older than Sherlock.
  2. He is rather high-up in one of London’s more prominent drug rings. Whether he arrived at this position through nepotism or sheer competence, Sherlock doesn’t know. Although after this most recent encounter, Sherlock is leaning towards competence.
  3. Born and raised in Ireland, arrived in London at an unknown date.
  4. Either bisexual or gay and making a public show of being heterosexual. Back in London, Sherlock almost always saw him with a girl or two on his arm.
  5. Highly intelligent.



None of this explains his interest in Sherlock. Sexual obsession seemed likely at first, but after his behavior earlier, Sherlock isn’t so sure. There was sexual attraction, yes, but attraction alone won’t motivate a man to cross oceans. And even if it could, Moriarty had plenty of opportunities to bribe or seduce Sherlock in London. There had to be something else.

Sherlock gets up from the bed and rummages around in his backpack until he finds what he is looking for: a clear plastic box full of small, brown seeds. He delicately removes one and places it in the palm of his hand.

Moriarty is a distraction he did not anticipate, and one he does not need. He came here for the work.

He strokes the seed’s rough surface with his index finger. _Brugmansia aurea._ Colloquially known as the _Borrachero_ tree. Children in the Colombian countryside are warned against falling asleep under its branches.

Extract the alkaloid from its seeds and you get _burundanga_ , a street drug used in robberies, sexual assaults, and the occasional murder. The drug leaves its victims lucid, but extremely suggestible—effectively robbing them of their free will. It also induces short term memory loss, which often means that those affected have no recollection of what happened to them under its influence.

Until recently, _burundanga_ was confined to South America. But a few months after Sherlock’s second suspension from Cambridge, when he found himself with nothing to do but chain-smoke and obsessively scour the newspaper, cases began to crop up in London.

A man in Hampstead woke one morning to find all of the furniture and electronics missing from his flat. When he ran downstairs to ask his doorman if there had been a break-in, the doorman told him that the previous night, he had returned to the building with two strangers and proceeded to load all of his belongings into their truck. The victim apparently did not remember doing this, and claimed to have been “hypnotized.”

The same month, police picked up a woman from Beaconsfield wandering barefoot in central London with no memory of how she got there. The last thing she recalled was doing the shopping with her school-age daughter—whom the police had yet to locate when Sherlock left England.

After some initial research, Sherlock contacted the Metropolitan Police Service with his conclusion that a little-known Colombian street drug was the common factor in both crimes. As it turned out, the Met had no interest in the theories of “some posh junkie putting on airs.” Only a single officer—one Sergeant Lestrade—took the time to listen to him. But without the approval of Lestrade’s superiors, nothing came of it.

Traveling to Colombia was the natural conclusion. It allowed Sherlock to both study the chemical composition of _burundanga_ and escape his overbearing brother, whose threats of checking him into a rehab facility were increasing in frequency. Of course, the easy availability of cocaine in Colombia played a role as well.

Which brings him back to the little baggie, still lying in his right hand. No telling what was actually in there—not without the proper equipment. Still, he doesn’t think that Moriarty means to poison him or harm him in any other way. At least not yet.

Sherlock lies there on the hostel bed, waiting for his heart rate to slow so he can sleep for a few hours.

He has rented lab space from the university downtown. In the morning, he’ll begin his work.

 

***

 

One of Jim’s men alerts him when Sherlock leaves the hostel at noon the next day. He and his team are inside the little room within the hour.

It doesn’t take Jim very long to find what he’s looking for because Sherlock—dear, sweet, _used-up_ Sherlock—hasn’t been very careful. There is a dog-eared page in the only book he brought with him: a text on tropical highland dendrology. The book falls open to a full-color illustration of _Brugmansia aurea._ The _Borrachero_ tree.

Jim’s mouth twitches at the corners. _“Caballeros,_ ” he turns and addresses his men. _“Tengo una tarea para ustedes.”_

 

***

 

The next time Jim sees Sherlock, he quite literally bumps into him. Of course, Jim had it arranged that way. He knows most of the dealers in this part of the city by now, and he’s instructed them to keep him informed of Sherlock’s movements.  

“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” says Sherlock. He doesn’t sound overly pleased.

They’re at the entrance to a narrow alleyway between two brightly-colored colonial buildings—one a bar and the other a restaurant. It’s the touristy part of town, meaning Sherlock must have paid a handsome price for the cocaine he just bought. Dusk has fallen, and the evening crowds are beginning to pour in.

“Where are you headed?” Jim asks.

Sherlock glares at the thickening mass of people to their left. He has recently acquired an angry-red sunburn across the bridge of his nose. “Away from here.”

“In such a hurry? Won’t you at least let me buy you a drink first?”

 “Why should I?”

Jim sidles up to Sherlock and brushes his hand against the other young man’s wrist. He stands on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Because I’ve got better stuff than whatever that man gave you.”

Five minutes later they’re both in the men’s toilet of the bar next door, Jim leaning contentedly against the wall while Sherlock bends over the sink and snorts an impressive amount of premium-grade coke.

 “My goodness. No wonder you’re one of our best customers. You’re insatiable.”

Sherlock’s pupils are blown huge when he raises his head to meet Jim’s gaze. “Helps me think,” he mutters.

“And what are you thinking about now?”

In lieu of an answer, Sherlock crosses the room in a few quick strides and presses his lips to Jim’s. Jim barely has time to reciprocate the kiss before Sherlock tries to force a tongue inside his mouth, and Jim feels compelled to call a halt to the proceedings.

“Ah ah ah. None of that.”

Sherlock moves his mouth down to Jim’s neck and makes an exasperated noise. “Why not? I know you want to.” He shifts his hips, taking care to brush his nascent erection against Jim, who is in a similar state.

Oh yes, Jim wants to. But he knows a little patience will take him a long way.

“Maybe I want to go _slow._ Get to know you better.”

Sherlock pulls away, scowling. “No one wants to _get to know_ me.”

“Not with that attitude.” Jim gives him a friendly little slap on the arse. He is gratified to see Sherlock twitch in response. “Now let’s stop skulking around the men’s toilets, hmm? People might get the wrong idea.”

He grabs Sherlock by the hand and leads him back out into the bar area. “Besides, I’m supposed to buy you a drink, remember?”

“Alcohol will only mitigate the benefits of the cocaine.”

“Oh, humor me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick all over his face, scrutinizing, looking for some clue as to what his motivations are. Jim watches with detached amusement; he has seen Sherlock play this little deduction game before, and as impressive (and _adorable_ ) as it can be, it won’t help him now. You don’t get far in Jim’s line of work without being a very good liar.

He schools his features into an expression of blank, cheerful openness that likely clashes with everything Sherlock has ever heard about him. Sherlock’s brow furrows in confusion.

Jim takes a seat at the bar, and motions for Sherlock to do the same. “What’s your poison?”

Sherlock climbs delicately onto the stool next to Jim’s. His hands twitch on his lap, and his pupils are still massive. Anyone familiar with the signs will know in an instant what he’s been up to.

“Interesting choice of words,” he says.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Please, Sherlock, you just snorted most of my cocaine. If I wanted to poison you, you’d be already be lying down there, choking on your own vomit.” Jim gestures to the grimy floor next to their stools, and then calls to the bartender, _“Dos Caipirinhas, por favor.”_

The barman nods in acknowledgement, and Sherlock and Jim both look on as he begins to mix their drinks.

“What can you tell me about him?” says Jim, after a pause.

“Hmm?”

“The barman.”

“Oh.” Sherlock squints at the man’s back for a few seconds, then sets off. “Late thirties, married, struggling to support his wife and infant child. Insecure about his small stature and guilty over his family’s financial woes.”

“They said you were good,” says Jim, smiling and moving his elbows to rest on the bar. “But tell me, how do you know all that?”

“His age is evident in the minor wrinkling around his eyes and mouth. Wedding band says married, and the bags under his eyes suggest sleepless nights tending to an infant. He wears platforms in his shoes because he is insecure about his height, and his clothing is in need of mending or replacement, but he can’t afford either at the moment. He doubtless feels guilty about _something_ , because he hasn’t made eye contact with us or any of the other patrons—classic sign of guilt. The guilt must come from his inability to provide his wife and child with the support he thinks they deserve.”

Jim nods. “All reasonable assumptions.”

“I don’t assume. I observe,” Sherlock fires back, predictably annoyed by the phrasing of the compliment.

“So you’ve told me. But I’m not questioning your observations, my dear. Only the conclusions you’ve drawn from them.”

The bartender slides them their drinks, and Jim pays. He shakes his head when the man asks him if he wants to start a tab.

Sherlock doesn’t notice. His attention remains fixed on Jim. “Oh? And what would _you_ conclude from my observations?”

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock. I wouldn’t know anything about all that.” Jim picks up the cold glass in front of him and takes a small swig of his _Caipirinha_. He smacks his lips. “Ooh, it’s quite sweet. I think you’ll like it.”

Sherlock picks up his own drink and sips hesitantly. “The flavor is acceptable,” he says, setting it back down, “But it tastes less alcoholic than most cocktails.”

“Well, that’s just the taste,” Jim says, grinning hugely. “I’d watch out, if I were you. It’ll have you drunk in no time.”

Sherlock raises the glass to his lips again. “I very much doubt that.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Jim finishes his own drink quickly, and Sherlock doesn’t take much longer. Jim was right, as usual; Sherlock has a definite sweet tooth.

“Actually, Sherlock,” Jim begins, after some time as passed. He softens his voice, leaving it barely audible over the clamor of the bar. “I _do_ have an alternative explanation for our friend’s behavior.” He gestures to the bartender.

Sherlock gazes at Jim with wide and suddenly guileless eyes—a good sign if there ever was one.

“You see that girl over there? The one sitting at the bar by herself?”

Sherlock looks over and nods.

“Well,” says Jim, “Imagine that there is a man here who wants to do… _unsavory_ things to her. On his own terms—not hers. And imagine that this man has a great deal of cash and influence in this city. Wouldn’t it make sense for the man to bribe the bartender to _slip_ something into her drink? Hmm? Perhaps a powder—a certain alkaloid— crushed up with the sugar on the rim of her glass?”

Jim runs his finger pointedly around the rim of his own glass, licking the sugar off the digit as he goes. He is gratified to see Sherlock’s attention fixed on his mouth.

He continues, “Something that would have her pliant and open to suggestion, but lucid at the same time. Lucid enough for our man to really enjoy himself.”

Sherlock looks away and mutters something about disliking hypotheticals.

“But wouldn’t doing something like that make the bartender feel guilty? Make him avoid eye contact with his patrons—especially with the man who paid him off?”

“If you say so,” Sherlock murmurs. He sways a little in his seat. All the coke-fuelled nervous energy from before is gone, replaced with something that Jim already likes much better.

Jim places a steadying hand on Sherlock’s back. “Don’t tell me you’re already drunk.”

“No,” says Sherlock. “Not drunk. Just feel strange.”

Jim makes a _tsk_ ing noise. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have mixed your uppers and downers, then. Not a good combo.” He tugs Sherlock off the stool, and Sherlock stumbles along after him. “Come on. I’ll see you to bed.”

He threads his fingers through Sherlock’s, and the young man seems happy to let him do so. There is a cab waiting for them outside the bar—one of Jim’s men in the driver’s seat—and Sherlock climbs in after him without having to be told. It’s only after several minutes of navigating the evening traffic that Sherlock speaks up.

“This isn’t the way back to the hostel.” His voice is neutral, not the least bit perturbed, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Jim inches closer to him, testing the waters. “Well no, Sherlock,” he says slowly. “I thought you might enjoy a break from cockroaches and communal toilets tonight. I’ve got a house right on the beach. Beautiful view. You’ll even have your own room. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock turns to Jim. “Won’t I be sleeping with you?” he asks. Every trace of his usual cold, calculating tone has left him now.

This, _this_ is what Jim has been waiting for—the part where all of Sherlock’s guardedness slips away entirely. This new wide-eyed innocence, so incongruous on the young man’s face, is enticing in its strangeness, in its _wrongness_.

 Burundanga really is a wonderful drug. Jim pats Sherlock fondly on the shoulder, a silent _thank you_ for the dog-eared page in the dendrology textbook. He might as well have delivered himself to Jim’s doorstep with a bow atop his curly head. _Happy Christmas indeed._

“Only if you want to, darling,” Jim replies, taking Sherlock’s hand and pressing a soft kiss to it.

The driver meets Jim’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and Jim’s expression hardens. The man remains silent until he delivers them to Jim’s bungalow—a sprawling, two-story building surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire.

 _“Gracias,”_ Jim says to the driver after ushering Sherlock out of the car. He taps twice on the roof, and the taxi speeds away. If Sherlock noticed that Jim neglected to pay (doubtful), he doesn’t say anything about it. Jim unlocks the two deadbolts on the front gate and keys in the security code while Sherlock waits patiently behind him. Then Jim takes his hand to lead him across the modest garden and through the front door.

The bungalow is well-appointed, cleaned every day by an assiduous housekeeping staff and furnished with a number of expensive, replica colonial pieces. Under ordinary circumstances, Jim knows that Sherlock would be drinking everything in, using his surroundings to draw conclusions about Jim and his organization. But tonight he follows Jim mutely up the stairs, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The rain begins to fall right as they reach the bedroom—first an arrhythmic patter and then a downpour. Sherlock goes and stands by the window, presumably watching the storm sweep across the sea outside, while Jim makes himself comfortable on the plush, four poster bed. He eyes Sherlock’s silhouette, lingering on his arse and shoulders, and sinks further into the pillows, grinning to himself. His job is not without its perks.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, after a few minutes of listening to the rain.

“Mmm.”

“Would you turn around for me, dear?”

Sherlock turns. Jim moves the edge of the bed closest to the window and sits up. “Unbutton your shirt,” he says.

It’s not much of a gamble on Jim’s part. Sherlock has already followed him into an unfamiliar car and halfway across the city; asking him to undress shouldn’t be a bridge too far.

Sherlock begins undoing the buttons at a quick, matter-of-fact pace. When his shirt is lying on the floor, Jim continues, “Good. And now your trousers.”

Sherlock slides his trousers off, leaving them pooled on the floor by the bed.

“Pants and socks,” sings Jim.

The socks go first, then the pants. Sherlock stands before Jim, naked and flaccid—although Jim knows the latter state won’t last long.

“How do you like to touch yourself?” Jim asks silkily. No sense in playing coy any longer.

“Fast. Tight grip. Efficient.”

Jim sighs. He’d suspected as much. Sherlock never seemed like one to voluntarily draw out his pleasure. Jim will have to teach him.

“Could you go slow if you needed to?”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, and then nods. His right hand is already beginning to gravitate towards cock, stiffening in its nest of dark hair.

“Good. That’s very good. Slowly, then.”

Looking unsure of himself, Sherlock grabs his cock in a loose fist and sets to work. Despite his earlier lack of arousal, he’s completely hard now, and he’s beginning to speed up without realizing it.

“Slow,” warns Jim.

Sherlock lets out a little whine, but obeys. Something about the situation must be arousing him tremendously. Is it the fact that Jim is watching him? Giving him orders? Or is it that—somewhere underneath the haze of the _Burundanga_ —he’s aware of how completely helpless he is?

“Does it normally feel this good when you touch yourself, Sherlock?” Jim asks.

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut with the effort of maintaining a slow pace.

“Why does it feel better now?”

“Not in control.”

Jim savors this information, rolls it around in his mind like he’d roll a sweet on his tongue.

“You like not being in control?”

Sherlock nods. “Can I go faster now?”

“No,” Jim says sharply. “I have more questions for you.”

Sherlock makes a helpless noise, sort of a whimper, and Jim mentally kicks himself for neglecting to set up some form of recording equipment. He has half a mind to order Sherlock to stop and wait for him while he runs downstairs for his camcorder.

“How many men have you been with?” he asks instead.

“Don’t know. Lost count. I’m always high when it happens.”

“And do you feel _in control_ when you’re high?”

“Yes. Even more than usual.”

“But you like not being in control.”

He only nods and bites his lip. It’s taking more and more effort for Jim to formulate questions; the sight of Sherlock’s arousal pushing wetly through his curled fingers—the dusky pink head of his erection disappearing and reappearing with each stroke—is almost hypnotic in its appeal.

“Earlier, in the hostel, you said you preferred to be on the receiving end, hmm? Do you like to be held down and fucked? Or are you partial to riding cock?”

“ _Unh._ ” Sherlock’s rhythm takes a noticeable uptick in speed.

Jim snaps his fingers. “Sherlock. Answer me.”

“Held down and fucked,” he gasps.

Hearing those words in Sherlock’s voice, a voice so rarely used for anything other than cold observations and scathing retorts, sends a powerful jolt of arousal through Jim’s body. But he soldiers on, resolving to bring Sherlock to the edge before tending to his own needs.

“What about a little pain, then? Do you like it when they pinch your nipples? Slap your arse? Maybe even make you cry?”

“Nobody—nobody’s ever made me cry.”

 _I could be the first,_ Jim thinks. He makes his voice stern. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“Yes, I like pain. _Oh._ Sometimes.”

Jim slides off the bed and gets to his feet. He begins to circle Sherlock where the young man stands, now pumping furiously into his own hand, head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. A fetching blush is creeping up his neck, matching the sunburn on his nose. Jim doesn’t even bother telling him to slow down. He sidles up behind Sherlock and cups both globes of that incongruously plush arse.

“You know what I could do to you right now, Sherlock?”

By way of answer, Sherlock arches into his touch and whimpers again.

“I could fuck you _raw_. Pin you to the mattress and come inside you, use you up like the _whore_ you are. Would you like that?”

Were Sherlock in his right mind, this remark would earn Jim nothing more than a disdainful glance and some sort of comment about dirty talk being terribly cliché. Instead, Sherlock has a different reaction; his whole body stiffens and he comes suddenly, eyes widening in surprise—taken off-guard by the swiftness of his own orgasm. He cries out, and Jim continues to grip Sherlock’s arse, grinding against it, seeking relief for his own arousal while Sherlock rides out the remainder of his pleasure. Jim only extricates himself when Sherlock’s hands swing back down to his sides and he begins to slump against Jim.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Jim says, guiding Sherlock to the bed. “You’ve done well, you know. A little quick on the trigger, but we can always work on that later.”

Sherlock, for his part, sprawls onto the bed. He’s still breathing heavily. Jim wants to believe he’s reeling from the intensity of the orgasm, but it probably has more to do with his smoking habit.

“Now, I want you to look at me,” he directs Sherlock.

When that pale, placid gaze meets his own, Jim unzips his trousers and removes his prick. The eye contact doesn’t waver even as Jim begins to stroke himself and rapidly picks up speed. The Sherlock that he sees in front of him—debauched, sleepy, stretched out on the comforter—is complemented by other Sherlocks, pictured in his mind’s eye performing a variety of pornographic acts: this one stretching his pink, cupid’s bow mouth to accommodate Jim’s cock, another one face down on the bed, on his knees, smooth white arse in the air, presenting himself to Jim for the taking.

How would it feel to bury himself deep inside Sherlock Holmes? Would it be _anything_ like what it was with the others who came before? Somehow, Jim doubts it. But he expects to know for sure soon enough.

With that thought, he finds his release.

 

***

 

At first, Sherlock can’t tell if the pain is real or just part of a dream he’s already forgotten. He blinks his eyes open, and bright sunlight assaults them. The intensity of his headache doubles. Definitely real pain, then.

He throws his arms over his face and lies there, unthinking and miserable for a few seconds, before a series of worrying observations arrive in his mind unbidden.

This is not his bed. It is not the single mattress on the floor of his tiny flat in Hackney, and it is not the narrow, lumpy cot he sleeps in in the hostel. This bed is large—a king at least—soft and comfortable. Not that he can appreciate it with his heart racing and the urge to panic rising inside him.

The last thing he remembers is bending over a sink, snorting cocaine off the white porcelain while Moriarty watched.

 _Moriarty_.

Sherlock throws off the covers and leaps out of the bed. Lucky for him, the carpet underneath is plush, so he lands silently enough. He does a quick scan of his surroundings: master bedroom, second floor, window facing the sea—expensive oceanfront property. The quality of the light filtering into the room tells him that it’s about 11 o’clock.

There are voices coming from outside the cracked bedroom door: low, rapid Spanish and then a reply, also in Spanish but with a familiar, sing-song Irish lilt.  The second voice sends a jolt of adrenaline singing through his veins, and his fight-or-flight response kicks into high gear. Unarmed and disoriented as he is, _fight_ is not a viable option. He needs to find a way to escape the house unnoticed. But how—

Footsteps echo outside the bedroom door, and it swings open before Sherlock can react. A weedy, dark-haired man stands in the doorway. Despite the weakness in his muscles and the throbbing in his head, Sherlock thinks he might be able to take the man on before he sees the much larger man standing behind him.

“Mr. Holmes,” says the smaller man in heavily-accented English. “Mr. Moriarty will see you now.”

Sherlock considers making a run for it, but the hallway isn’t all that wide, and the larger man (tall and muscular with a prominent scar running down the side of his face) looks like he could easily intercept him, so he allows the two to lead him into the corridor, through a set of propped-open French doors, and out onto a wide balcony overlooking the sea. Moriarty is waiting for him there, lounging in a pair of linen khakis and a loose-fitting white shirt. The remnants of a mostly-finished breakfast are scattered on the table next to him, and he has a sweating Bloody Mary (complete with celery sprig) in his left hand. He sets it down to take off his sunglasses, and Sherlock becomes uncomfortably aware of the fact that he’s standing in front of Moriarty wearing nothing but his pants and a thin t-shirt. It’s the most vulnerable he’s felt in a while.

Moriarty smiles a disconcerting smile, like he’s just read Sherlock’s mind. “Good morning to you too, then. How’d you sleep?”

“Reasonably well for someone who was drugged and kidnapped,” says Sherlock, reflexively pithy.

“Mmm, I bet my bed made a nice change after that dreadful cot in the hostel.”

The two cronies have retreated inside by now. Sherlock wonders if he has any chance of overpowering Moriarty until the other boy speaks up.

“Oh, Sherlock. Can you stop thinking about making a run for it for two seconds? It won’t work, and I guarantee it will be very tedious for both of us. I just want to have a little chat. Then I’ll let you leave, I promise.”

Sherlock doesn’t believe him for a second, but makes a show of relaxing his posture.

“Good,” says Moriarty. “Now…have you figured it out yet?”

Sherlock has, in fact, figured it out. “Scopolamine. Obvious.”

“ _Burundanga_ ,” Moriarty says in an exaggerated accent, savoring each syllable. “ _The devil’s breath_. Really a genius little drug. I have to thank you for introducing me to it.”

Of course. Moriarty must have followed him to the makeshift lab space he was renting from the university. After their initial meeting in the hostel, it was stupid not to realize he would be under surveillance.

No time to mentally self-flagellate now. He can dwell on the mistake later. “You’re quite welcome. So, are you going to tell me what happened after you dosed me, or should I leave that for the police to figure out?”

Sherlock is bluffing, and Moriarty knows it. His grin widens. “Let’s be honest with each other. You’re not going to the police. Your work with _Burundanga_ is just as illegal as anything I’ve done. Not to mention that the police here don’t have much sympathy for coked-up foreigners turning the locals into drug dealers and ruining their country’s reputation.” Moriarty rises from the chair and begins to stalk toward Sherlock. “No, you’ll be looking at serious jail time if you give them your version of events. Your big brother is the only one who might be able to get you out of it, and I know you’re not desperate enough to call _him._ ” He slinks a few steps closer. “Not when he’ll ship you off to rehab the instant you get home.”

Moriarty’s face is only a few inches from his own now. Up close, his eyes look like black pits—the sort you could fall into and never be seen again. Sherlock jerks back, finding that his calm veneer has stretched past its breaking point. “What do you want?” he snaps.

Moriarty raises his hands in the air and backs away, shaking his head in mock-contrition. “I only want to help you, Sherlock. I can tell you’re bored. You’re clawing at the walls here, aren’t you?”

“How on earth could anything you’ve done be classified as _helping_?”

“Well, you’re not bored now, are you? Besides, I helped you out with your _research_ , didn’t I?” He puts ‘research’ in sardonic air quotes. “All those people in London—poor dears missing their furniture and babies—now you know how they felt when they woke up the next morning! That’s invaluable human knowledge, _essential_ for any—”

“You’re insane,” Sherlock interrupts. “Completely insane.”

“You’re just getting that now?”

“What did you do to me?” he demands.

Moriarty’s face crumples into an exaggerated frown. “What, you don’t remember? But we had such a good time! I really thought I made more of an impression.” He smirks, and slouches back down into the chair. “I didn’t do anything you didn’t want me to do, Sherlock. I didn’t do anything you haven’t already asked me to do multiple times.”

Horror—laced with a small, shameful trace of arousal—hits Sherlock like a punch in the gut. Had Moriarty raped him while he was drugged? But no. When he’s penetrated, he usually feels some residual soreness the next day, even with exceptionally gentle lovers (and gentle is not Sherlock’s preference). He doesn’t feel anything like that now.

“Relax,” says Moriarty, rolling his eyes and putting the sunglasses back on. “I only watched while you had a wank. Trust me, the first time I fuck you, I’ll make sure you remember it.”

 _The first time I fuck you._ Sherlock feels his cheeks heat up at those words, but he does his best to ignore it. “Presumptuous,” he replies.

Moriarty flicks a nonexistent speck of dust off the shoulder of his pristine white shirt. “Mmm. If you say so. I might be more inclined to believe you if you hadn’t offered yourself up on the proverbial silver platter the first time we were formally introduced.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but Moriarty interrupts.

“Anyway, moving on to less prurient matters… I have to say, I found your work with _Burundanga_ very interesting. Particularly your research on its interactions with other substances. In fact, there are _lots_ of things I find interesting about you, Sherlock Holmes. Aside from—” he makes a sweeping gesture towards Sherlock’s body “—you know, the obvious. I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard this a million times before, but you really are quite clever. An accomplished chemist at only 23. Near-eidetic memory. You’re very good at reading people as well, at least when you put in the effort.”

“Evidently I wasn’t good enough to read _you_.”

Moriarty makes a dismissive noise. “Don’t be ridiculous. I never said you were as clever as I am. But still, good help is hard to find these days, and your particular skillset is valuable in my line of work.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to expect from Moriarty when he first stepped out onto the balcony, but it certainly wasn’t this. “I’m sorry, are you trying to _recruit_ me?” he asks, incredulous. “Is drugging and assaulting potential employees part of your normal hiring process?”

“Only for the pretty ones.” Moriarty grins, showing all of his teeth.

It takes Sherlock a moment to recover from this. “Well, thank you so much for your kind offer,” he says after a short pause, mustering every ounce of the mocking sarcasm he usually reserves for Mycroft, “but I’m afraid I must decline.”

“Oh, come on! At least consider it. Here, I’ve already done some of the thinking for you.” Moriarty jumps back out of the chair and begins to pace.

“Your current situation is unsustainable. You’re running out money. Mummy and daddy cut you off after they found out about your little habit, didn’t they? And playing private detective back in London never earned you much. Soon your savings will dry up. You’ll have to go home. And what’s waiting for you there? The police don’t want any help from a smart-arse junkie.”

There is an icy truth to Moriarty’s words. Sherlock has already begun to feel the pinch of limited finances. He spends very little on food and lodging, but his drug habit is only slightly less expensive here than it is in London, and the idea of finding a way to earn a living in Colombia is…unpleasant, to say the least. At the same time, he knows he’s not ready to go back to London, either—not ready to go back to his disappointed parents, his overbearing brother, his terminally boring former studies. He’d much rather lock himself in his rented lab and immerse himself in the work that actually interests him. He’d much rather not think about the future at all.

“So what will you do?” Moriarty continues. “Start dealing? Gambling? You’ll end up in so deep with my people that you might as well be working for me anyway. It’ll be much more fun to work for me here.”

At this, Sherlock scoffs. “And what will _working for you_ entail, exactly? Cutting your coke with caffeine and baking soda? Or are you expecting me to stand on street corners and sell?”

Moriarty pouts. “I’m honestly hurt that you think so little of me. Do you think I’d waste your time with that rubbish? No. I’m not sure if you’ve heard it through the grapevine yet, but I’ve been, shall we say, _expanding my horizons_ lately. The drugs business is so _one-note_ , you know? Lots of money to be made, sure, but not much fun to be had. And I’m like you, darling,” he says, an unsettling amount of what sounds like genuine affection in his voice, “I get bored.”

 _I’m like you._ Sherlock doesn’t want to see it, but he does. The similarity is there: a warped version of his own reflection, maybe. A funhouse mirror. Or are they even closer than that?

“What will you need me for, then?” he asks, partially to drive away these thoughts, and partially out of honest curiosity.

“Oh, you know. The usual reconnaissance stuff. Evaluating potential safe houses, doing research on marks—all that detective shite, just on the less _conventional_ side of the law.”

“You’re being purposely vague.”

Moriarty gives him the kind of _don’t be stupid_ look that Sherlock is used to doling out himself. “Well, it’s not as though I’m going to give you any of the details. You haven’t proved yourself trustworthy yet.”

Heat creeps into Sherlock’s voice before he can stop it. “Sorry, but it’s a bit rich of you to talk about _trustworthiness_ after you—”

“Oh, spare me the righteous indignation, Sherlock,” Moriarty interrupts with a massive eye-roll. “You don’t have to decide now, all right? Go back to that dingy little hostel. Call and check your bank statement. Do the math and see how long you’ll be able to stay here and play pharmacist. I’ll wait.”

Sherlock wants to throw a venomous retort right back in Moriarty’s face, but for once, the words have escaped him. Instead he says, “Is that all? Are you going to let me leave now?”

In lieu of an answer, Moriarty snaps his fingers. The weedy man appears in the doorway right away; he must have been standing guard well within earshot of their conversation. “Go and fetch our guest the rest of his clothes. Then see him out.”

Sherlock follows the man back into the master bedroom, where his clothes are produced from a chest of drawers. As he pulls on his trousers and laces up his shoes, he tries not to dwell on what Moriarty said. He tries not to think about how many more days his savings will last him (not many) and tries not to remember the heavy dullness of his post-expulsion life in London. It’s not that he doesn’t still love the city. He does. He even misses it day-to-day. But going back now would feel like a resignation, a defeat. And he refuses to let the dullness rise up and crush him.

The two cronies guide him out of house, through the manicured front garden, and deposit him onto the sidewalk outside. When he looks up, shielding his eyes against the sun, he sees Moriarty still there on the balcony, leaning against the railing and watching him. He’s put the dark sunglasses back on, and Sherlock is once again reminded of black pits—cracks in the earth leagues and leagues deep. He can’t help but wonder what would happen if he let himself fall in.

Moriarty raises his half-finished Bloody Mary in the air—a mocking toast—and grins. Determined, Sherlock turns on his heel and begins making his way back to the hostel.

 

***

 

Jim watches him leave, enjoying the view of Sherlock’s retreating backside even from afar.

People, Jim knows, are by and large predictable. They broadcast their intent and their likely course of action in everything they do and say, most of the time without realizing it. And Sherlock—extraordinary, _clever_ Sherlock—is no different in this regard. 

He will be back. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough.

 _And then,_ Jim tells himself with relish, _the fun will_ really _begin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, Burundanga is very real and very, very scary. I took some liberties with how it works though. 
> 
> Not beta'd, not britpicked. Feel free to drop me a note in the comments if you see any issues.


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